The forest was too still.
Mist clung to Michael's coat in fine, clinging strands, muffling every footstep. The trees leaned in tight, their bark twisted into grimaces, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.
Ashen Mercy pulsed faintly in his grip, the runes alive beneath his fingers.
Then the earth shifted.
Roots moved.
The air buckled.
And she rose.
Echidna unfurled from the ground like some terrible bloom, half woman, half serpent, her body woven of vines, thorns, and glistening green. Her hair cascaded around her in living leaves, each strand whispering against the mist.
Her beauty was the kind that lingered just long enough to kill you.
"Oh," she purred, voice dripping with mockery, "they sent you to prune my garden?"
Michael didn't answer.
He struck first.
Ashen Mercy sang through the air—but Echidna slipped aside, fast as thought. Her winged vines lashed outward, catching him full in the ribs. Michael was thrown into the thick roots of a blackwood tree, the impact rattling his bones.
Pain stabbed through his side.
He rolled and came up swinging, slicing a shallow line across her shoulder.
The runes flared. Her flesh seared where the blade kissed it.
Echidna hissed—a sound full of dark amusement.
"You carry fire," she whispered, voice low and taunting. "But not enough."
Her tail coiled and snapped forward.
It hit him squarely in the chest.
Michael flew across the clearing, crashed against a half-buried stone, and dropped hard onto the mossy earth. The breath ripped from his lungs. Blood filled his mouth.
He forced himself upright.
Too slow.
A thick vine shot from the ground, spearing clean through his thigh. He bit down hard against the scream clawing up his throat and hacked the tendril apart, stumbling to one knee.
Echidna slithered forward, the mist curling around her.
"You fight like one of them," she said, almost curious. "But you're not."
Michael lunged.
They collided again—steel against thorn, fire against flesh.
Sparks burst. Trees cracked. Vines withered under his blade. He drove Ashen Mercy deep into her side, twisting until Echidna roared in pain.
But she was not done.
Her tail snapped around his waist, thorns biting through his coat. With terrifying strength, she slammed him into the earth—once, twice, three times—until the world was a blur of pain, dirt, and broken breath.
Michael clung to consciousness by a thread.
He gathered everything he had, channeling it into Ashen Mercy, the blade igniting with furious heat.
He stabbed upward, ramming it through Echidna's torso.
The fire surged.
Echidna shrieked—an inhuman, rattling sound that split the mist.
For a moment, Michael thought he had won.
Then her hand shot out.
A needle-thin thorn jabbed into the base of his neck—so fast, he barely felt it.
He staggered back, wrenching the blade free.
Echidna crumpled, her form shuddering, hissing in pain.
But something was wrong.
Michael fell to one knee, the sword trembling in his grip.
His vision warped—doubling, then tripling.
The heat inside him turned sour, crawling under his skin.
'What—?'
He pressed a hand to his chest.
His heart skipped.
Cold swept through his veins, drowning the fire.
'Poison.'
He triggered his regeneration instinctively. Bruises faded. The wound on his thigh sealed. The puncture at his neck closed.
But the sickness stayed.
It burned colder with every heartbeat, spreading fast, unstoppable.
Echidna laughed, her voice broken, breathless, but triumphant.
"You burn so brightly," she rasped, dragging herself back into the mist. "But all fires… fade."
Michael collapsed onto one elbow, fingers scraping uselessly at the dirt.
Ashen Mercy slipped from his hand.
He watched, helpless, as Echidna's form melted into the fog, wounded but victorious.
The world tilted.
'Regeneration doesn't cure poison.'
He gritted his teeth as the dark closed in.
'That… is a problem.'
Above him, the trees swayed in slow, mocking circles.
And then, silence.